


Cut Him Out

by snuggletart



Category: Antisepticeye - Fandom, Septiplier - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF, jacksepticeye, markiplier - Fandom, youtube - Fandom
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Possession, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, descriptions of self mutilation and body horror, graphic descriptions of illness, pretty tame tho, some chapters are shorter than others sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-09-01 01:22:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8601661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snuggletart/pseuds/snuggletart
Summary: Basically a realistic AU where all the "Antisepticeye" content on Jack's YouTube account is unbeknownst to him. Meta. 
Established!Septiplier, a convention a few days before Halloween, and Jack isn't well.





	1. Who

**Author's Note:**

> kicks legs in the air
> 
> this is my first time on AO3 and also my first time writing this fandom
> 
> wiggles legs in air 
> 
> i dont write very often (and ive never written for this fandom before) so i purged this entire thing out of my system the day before halloween during all the Anti hype
> 
> thanks for readin

No one bats an eyelash when they offer to share a room - Mark and Jack had only been dating shy of a month, but in the company of friends, they were safe. It was still a secret from their fans, for the time being, but that didn't come from a place of shame as much as it did a place of privacy, a nervousness about the reception of the couple. Jack was sure it wouldn't be a secret for long, but for now, he put it to the back of his mind and enjoyed the closest thing to criticism - Felix making playful kissy faces at them from across the hotel lobby. 

Originally, everyone had booked separate rooms - the convention was three days, a long weekend, and they'd all agreed to pay for their own space. But the hotel had filled up fast, and a small error on behalf of the frazzled hotel employee behind the counter lead to the group being a room short. 

Mark hadn't seem bothered, raised his eyebrows at Jack in a silent "what's up?" from across the room, but Jack waved his boyfriend off and informed the concierge that doubling-up wouldnt be an issue.   
They split up in the hallway, unable to book adjoining rooms. Wade and Bob found their rooms closest to the elevator, rightfully bragging about it as they waved goodbye, while Felix wheeled his bags down the hallway alongside his fellow, bright-haired friends. 

"Remind me why we didn't get the bellboy to help us," the Swede grumbled halfheartedly, earning an almost immediate scoff from Mark, who was having no trouble wheeling his own suitcase with one hand, the other still free to cradle Jack's fingers as they walked. Usually, they'd try to refrain from PDA when they were in public, but it was late and the hallways of the hotel were clear, most guests having retreated for the night, powering up for the busy convention tomorrow. 

"It's a three days," Mark pointed out helpfully. "How much did you pack?"

Jack was quiet as the two bantered, head turned unobservantly to watch them. Though he blamed it on the airplane flight, illness had been rising in him ever since they landed, and even back on his feet, it remained. 

It was probably exhaustion, he told himself, a result of those late nights spent editing at the computer, queueing videos to cover the span of the con - the last thing he wanted to do was bring all his recording equipment with him on the trip. 

Exhaustion or otherwise, he was looking forward to the hotel bed, somewhere he could lie down to let his sickness pass, remove the ache from his temples and the churning from his gut.   
On autopilot, he almost walks right past their room, Mark's fingers acting like an anchor between his own, pulling him back to a gentle stop. 

Felix was gone; Jack didn't remember him leaving. He was sure he must have said goodbye, but didn't remember that, either, like the memory slipped through the hairline fractures in his brain.

"You okay?" Mark asks him, voice lowered enough to avoid the hallways' echo. His hand slips out of Jack's to slide the hotel keycard into their door, but he seems to do it without having to take his eyes off his boyfriend, concerned. 

Mentally awake now, Jack nods quickly, contributes a smile.  
"Yeah!" his voice cracks. He coughs, tries again. "Yeah. M'fine. Knackered,"

Though he doesn't seem entirely convinced, Mark waits until they're both inside the room, and the door has shut behind them, before he brings it up again.   
"Did you manage to sleep on the plane?"

"Not really," Jack answers honestly, already uninterested in the topic as he locates - and promptly collapses on - the single bed in the center of their four walls.  
Face down, he groans all the oxygen out of his lungs, fills the pillows with the noise, and lets the mattress sink under his weight. This bed was a lot softer than the one he had at home, and he was willing to let it consume him. He barely hears Mark laughing. 

"Did you manage to sleep at all?" the redhead pries lightheartedly, and Jack feels the corner of the mattress shift where Mark must have sat near him. "Like, once this week, at least?"

It takes all of Jack's muscles to will him into rolling over, but the heat of his pillows was already starting to make him uncomfortable. The ceiling light hurts his eyes, sore. 

"I'm alright," the Irishman confirms, sitting up when he realizes his shoes are still on, dirtying the top layer of bedsheets. He absently goes to untie them, "I just haven't been sleeping well, at all, really."

Mark doesn't answer, doesn't move, patiently expecting the rest of the story. 

"I've been playin' that Sister Location game," Jack continues absently, his mouth running without thought while he unlaces his sneakers, managing in a struggle to kick them off his feet.   
A noise leaves Mark's mouth, an understanding kind of 'oh' from the other side of the bed, and Jack feels his hand get scooped up in his boyfriend's warm grip.  
When Jack turns to him, Mark just smiles and he nods knowingly, embracing the younger man's fingers with his own. It's this gentle connection that brings Jack into reality again, embarassment settling upon him as he realized what he said, how foolish it sounds. He played scary games for a living - they both did - and it hardly justified an excuse. Sheepishly, an apology starts to fall out of his mouth, but Mark swallows it by speaking first.

"Well. That was the first Five Nights game you played all the way through, wasn't it?"

Jack feels his entire body convulse as he swallows, suddenly very conscious of himself. It feels petty, to lose sleep over a video game, but he knows in the back of his mind, that if anyone understands that, it's Mark - the self proclaimed "king" of Five Nights at Freddy's. He'd been there to watch his boyfriend sink hours and hours into the original games, trying to maintain his title. Part of Jack wanted the same motivation, able to play the same game for hours and still get views. 

He could, maybe, but not with Sister Location.   
Since the first game, Jack had began losing interest in the series - for it's time, Five Nights at Freddy's did well at consuming the YouTube community and everyone was talking about it. But as the sequels released, the love Jack harboured for the original, minimalist title had begun to fade. To him, they felt repetitive and dull.   
But this new title .... it felt different to him. And not in a way he found himself fond. 

He played the whole game in one sitting, and cued the videos to upload over the course of the convention. The first one must have posted today. Jack wondered what the reception would be like from his fans. It made his stomach go sour. 

"Yeah," he mumbles, and it falls through his lips like drool. 

There's a silence that hangs between them, and Jack doesn't stop Mark when he moves to get up off the bed. Standing, Mark takes his boyfriend's cheeks in both of his hands and kisses him for a moment, but only for a moment. Jack's embarrassment leaves in the taste of Mark's lips, and he's calm again, ready to rest.


	2. What

He's too sick to go to the panel the next day. 

It feels awful, and Jack hates himself for it, suffocated by his blankets, staring holes in the ceiling. Moving at all, even rolling over to check his phone, washes him in pain and nausea, rising in his gut and making it all the way into his gullet before he's able to swallow it back down. Pulses of pain in his temples accumulate to a full-blown migraine. 

He's letting his fans down, Jack knows, and his guilt only contributes to the turning of his stomach. 

This would be the first time he's ever missed out on a convention day, let alone a personal panel, and he's survived colds, hangovers, and sleepness nights before. This is different - it's not just sleep deprivation. It feels like the onset of a virus, his blood and organs trying to burst through his skin, stretching him further than he feels he could go.   
Mark had listened patiently when Jack explained himself, whined apologetically that he couldn't attend the panel today, but the redhead bore nothing but understanding, a sympathetic smile and a forehead kiss that melted Jack's pain for a minute. 

"I still have to go," Mark gently reminded, and the bedridden gamer nodded absently. "You going to be okay by yourself?"

"Get me a ttra sh can," was his response, stuttering. He didn't usually have a stutter, but it was like his words stopped in the middle, had to reboot themselves. Probably another symptom of whatever illness he had. The creases between Mark's eyebrows become apparent at the request, so Jack elaborates.   
"In case I thr-throw up."

His boyfriend accepts the task, moving the small plastic can near Jack's bedside before leaning down to kiss him. The plastic convention pass around his neck falls and gently bops Jack's face, for which he apologizes inside a laugh. 

"Call me if you need me, okay?" 

 

-

 

It seemed like a useless request. Even in and out of sleep all day, Jack heard his boyfriend stop by to check on him a minimum of three times. One time, it was Felix, and he knew because the Swedish gamer didn't smell the same way that Mark did. His boyfriend smelled like a weird, but pleasant blend, of hair products and cologne. Felix smelled like his dog.

Through the many floors of the hotel, Jack could hear the convention going on. Could hear the chatter of microphones, the cheering of crowds, the panel he was supposed to attend. He has to think about what he's missing, how many people would be dissapointed with his absence, but the thrumming in his body reminds him why he's unable to attend. It feels as though his body is turning on him, like theres something inside him that exceeds the size of his bones, trying to tear it's way out.

His nose bleeds, for the first time since he was a child, and it stains the perfect white pillowcases under his head - they're going to have to pay for that, Jack knows, but for now the best he does is shoving it off the bed. Lying with his head tipped back, he feels all the blood running down his throat, and its awful, filling him. He coughs, tastes it.   
If he wasn't so tired, he'd probably be worried, thinking about a hospital trip, maybe. 

For now, he skips between naps and consciousness, rolling around in the bedsheets while he waits for his sickness to subside, or for Mark to return.

 

-

 

Darkness has already fallen through the cracks in the hotel curtains when the convention ends, when everybody - Mark included - retreats back to their rooms.   
If Jack wasn't already awake, he would have slept through it - his boyfriend opened the door gently, snuck inside. His voice is the best thing Jack's heard all day.

"Babe? You up?"

"Yeah," he's sitting up now, blankets still thrown around his shoulders. But it's an improvement. 

Mark doesn't even take his jacket off before he's also on the bed. Concern still emanates from him, and Jack can feel it, but his spirits are lifted again in Mark's presence.  
"How was it?" Jack murmurs into Mark's lips when he kisses him. He's only half interested, asking out of obligation, but it feels like an important question. 

"Eh, you know," Mark's obviously trying to downplay it, and Jack sees right through him like translucent sheets of glass. "It was fine, really loud. My eyes are like, numb from all the camera flashes."  
It seems, for a moment, like he's bragging, but Jack can see through that, too, and smiles. 

"Good news, though," the redhead continues as he shifts on the bed to get more comfortable. His hand finds placement on Jack's thigh.   
"I met up with Danny and Arin before the panel - they said they didn't mind trading. So...." He gestures meaninglessly with his hands. "...if you're feeling better, you can take their place at the Sunday panel instead?"   
He seems hopeful if not sheepish, embarassed to make plans on his boyfriends behalf. 

Jack isn't able to hold back his look of surprise - how did Mark manage to pull off a schedule change like that with such short notice?   
But the smile on his boyfriend's face reminds him. That smile could help him get away with anything. Fuck. 

"That is good news," the greenhaired man practically breathes out, making a mental notes to find the Grumps later and express his gratitude. Buy them drinks, maybe. "Shite."

"Yeah!" Mark seems excited and relieved all at once. For a moment, they're quiet.   
"You, uh, feeling better?"  
For the first time today, warmth runs though Jack's body and he feels safe again. The illness inside of him is gone, numbed by Mark's eyes.

Jack's smile is organic and he nods.


	3. When

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jack has some kind of psychiatric break during sex 
> 
> tw for some body horror imagery

The second day of the con goes without issue. 

Jack manages to locate the Grumps - Arin first, and Danny shortly after - to thank them properly for trading panels. As he expected, the both of them seem nonchalant about it - trading panels means that they get to leave a day early, that Arin gets to spend Halloween with Suzy like he wanted. 

Since his newly assigned panel wasn't until tomorrow, it meant that Jack was free to enjoy himself, to take a day off without having to record or cue up new material. He attributed this as the main cause for his recovery - maybe yesterday was just a fluke, an onset of stress and malnourishment, because he woke up feeling fine, yesterdays' illness just a bad memory.

He makes an extra effort to interact with his fans, taking as many photos as he can and signing an equal amount of autographs, to make up for his unexpected absence. At least a few people ask if he's feeling better, and their concern is touching. He's quick to wave them off, though, change the subject. 

Mark meets up with him about halfway through the day, Wade and Bob in loyal tow. Though it's not an official panel, the four of them answer a few questions, sign a few autographs, before Mark manages to pull his boyfriend aside.   
Jack's halfway through signing a poster when he's tugged away. His pen barely leaves the paper as he realizes how foreign the signature looks - like it isn't his, he didn't write it, but the pen is still in his hand and the ink is still wet.  
Weird, he thinks. Maybe all the attention is getting to him.   
But Mark's already got him in the hallway before he can inspect it, hiding near a vending machine as he doublechecks Jack's health.

"Still doing okay? You've been busy," 

Unable to hold in a laugh, his humor having returned to him, Jack nodded enthusiastically.  
"Right as rain!" even his accent seemed to be more alive than the day previous. 

They can't kiss with so many eyes around, so Jack settles instead for playfully jabbing his finger into the flesh of Mark's stomach. Both of them share a smile.  
"Thanks fer checkin', though," his words come with a flash of teeth, feet already pulling him back into the convention, the noise and the crowds of people. 

"Meet you at the restaurant later?" Jack calls before he's gone, and he watches Mark's red hair bob as he nods in confirmation.

 

-

 

The illness returns only once for the entire day - two girls manage to pull Jack aside during the winding hours of the convention, and since his body is still buzzing with energy, he agrees to answer a few questions.

"Do you have any big plans for Halloween," is what one of them had asked, but the way they both chattered and laughed made Jack feel like they were on the inside of a joke he was missing. Instinctively, the Irishman looked around, maybe for one of his friends to help him possibly analyze the question.

"I, uh... no? Not really." he answered in honesty, but the fans continued to stare through him like they were expecting something more. As they watched, giggling between themselves, Jack felt his stomach turn - slowly at first, but picking up until it felt like his organs were inside a tumble dryer. He wasn't even sure why, but there was something about the way they were staring at him that made his hands shake, made his feet itch with the desire to escape, to run out of the emptying convention hall and back to the security of his hotel room, of the soft bedsheets, to the smell of his boyfriend.

A selfie becomes the easiest change of subject, as Jack and the two fans manage to squeeze into frame, snapping the quickest photograph before the gamer can take off, finally able to breathe again.

So weird. Maybe they were just excited about the Sister Location releases? Those must have started posting yesterday. That was the only answer he could come up with.  
He hadn't posted anything, on any social media, about Halloween plans. Hell, he didn't even have a costume in mind, so it seemed strange to him, how anxious the girls has been for a response. Eager for an answer, almost.   
It haunts him for the entire walk to the restaurant, and his bones feels like breaking.

 

-

 

Alcohol pursues his fears and destroys them.

The table seated at least a dozen, so again, he was in the safe company of friends. He felt good here, especially with Mark beside him, arm resting near-protectively over the back of Jack's chair. Something about the YouTuber's presence made Jack more brave, and their table soon became the loudest in the restaurant. 

Felix, Wade and Bob were at the opposite end of the table, arguing about something - dessert, probably. Next to them, Ken was trying to explain to somebody where the "Cinnamon Toast" in his name came from. Arin and Danny, though uninvited, had shown up, and Jack was glad for it, able to buy them that drink he promised. Admittedly, there were some people at the table that Jack hadn't recognized, but it didn't keep him from engaging, alcohol loosening the unfamiliarity between faces. 

It was only beer that Jack had been drinking, but since they were such a large group, they spent longer than expected at their table, and everyone got a few too many deep. He'd surpassed giggly two pints ago, and sobriety the one after that. No longer draped over the chair, Mark's arm was now around Jack's shoulders instead, the weight warm and welcome.   
He'd felt estranged from his boyfriend over the last two days, even if they had been sharing a bedroom - he'd been sick yesterday, and then today, they had avoided each other in lieu of the public eye of their fans. But now, they were free to be near, and Jack soaked in the affections. 

The booze probably helped.   
Helped him effortlessly assert the courage to grip his boyfriends leg under the table, fingers pressing into the denim of Mark's jeans and the fleshy thigh underneath. He loved being with Mark - the only thing better was maybe being with Mark alone. 

They're wordless as Mark takes the hint, as Jack feigns fatigue as their excuse to leave. He entrusts Felix with his credit card, telling the blue-haired gamer to return it to him tomorrow, when they all meet up for the panel.   
Someone offers to walk them back to their room, but Mark's the one to brush them off, insisting that he was sober enough to find his way back without issue. Everyone, even Jack, believes him - Mark's frame was built more sturdy and muscular than his boyfriend was, and it implied the ability to hold his alcohol better. It might have been true, whatever. Jack just wanted to get back to the bed, and find out for himself how drunk the redhead really was. 

Collectively, they manage to stumble through the hotel hallways, tripping over themselves and over each other, falling between kisses and steps. Jack has his breath stolen in the elevator, Mark pressed up against him so hard that he can feel the indents of the gamer's ribs pushing into his own. It would have almost hurt, had he been sober. Their mouths moved slick against each other, interrupted by clumsy intakes of air against teeth or stupid giggly laugh breaks. Once, Mark's glasses awkwardly jab into the side of Jack's eye, and the offending gamer is caught between apologies or chuckles through his teeth.  
The hallway is longer than Jack ever remembered it, and it takes a team effort to successfully reach their room, unlock it, and close the door behind them. 

Though his illness is all but banished, drowned out by liquor and sleepiness and the taste of Mark's mouth in his own, Jack still finds himself clawing at his lover, insatiable, almost pulling the taller man off his feet. It's not the same sickness he felt earlier, but there's still something inside of Jack that hungers, that _craves_ , that leads him to tug impatiently, trying to fill the void he didn't know he possessed. He bites Mark's neck, wonders what it would be like to sink his teeth through flesh.

"Wait, wwait, fuck-" Mark pauses, showing a surprising level of sobreity in the way his arm wrapped around Jack's waist seems to support his entire weight. Jack's too infatuated by the way curse words sound in Mark's voice, and the way it curls up in his ears, to pay attention to what his boyfriend is trying to do.  
"At least let me lock the door,"

 

-

 

Jack soaks in every syllable that Mark gives him.

"Fuck... you're amazing,"   
The redhead was always like this when they had sex, even before they started officially dating. Mark was just an affectionate guy, so compliments and proclaimations of his love not only rolled out of his mouth, but showed on his face, in his lidded eyes no longer obscured by his glasses. His hands bore a gentle, stabilizing grip on Jack's tiny hips as the younger man rocked in place, in his boyfriend's lap, Mark's dick buried inside him. 

Their energy levels had long since dissipated as sobriety reclaimed it's hold, rough grabbing and kissing replaced with low draws of breath, gentle creaks of the hotel bed below them. It was funny, how they'd been all over each other, so possessive, when they first got back to the hotel room. They had barely spoke between makeouts, pausing only for a couple seconds to laugh when they realized they'd both packed lube and condoms, prepared. Jack briefly teased his boyfriend for being "so optimistic", before Mark's mouth had stolen his voice away from him again.

But Jack felt good here.   
He kept his back straight, chin to his chest as he looked down at his lover, Mark lying flat on the bedsheets under him. Mark's hips barely moved, allowing Jack full control, but he'd occasionally shift his legs and thrust a little deeper inside the paler man, pushing the air from his lungs. Jack's hands were planted just below Mark's ribcage, using him to keep his balance as he slowly raised and lowered himself, over and over again, indulging the fullness that Mark provided him, every inch.

"You feel so good," Mark continues, the words almost a breathy whisper through his smiling lips. His thumbs are warm where they rub the sharp point of Jack's hipbones.   
"I love this, I love just ... being inside of you,"

Jack's mind stutters and stops. His body goes cold and still. He isn't even sure why, because he loves the sound of Mark's voice, but something about that choice of words strikes him like a blow to the head, and all of yesterday's sickness begins to rise in him again. 

_inside of him_

It's obvious on his face that something is wrong, so Mark is sitting up in an instant, hands raised to Jack's sides, ready to help if needed. His concern is weighed out only by his confusion at the sudden change.

"Babe?" the redhead is cautious this time, the heavy affection gone from his words, now wavering with nervousness. 

Both of Jack's hands have gone to cover his face. The headache is back, tearing at his eye sockets from behind. He can still feel Mark's hands on his body, Mark's cock inside of it, but, Jack feels tragically empty. He feels like everything inside his skin had evaporated. Everything but the illness.

"Jack? You okay?" the elder man continues to pry carefully. "Did I-?"  
With a forced shake of the head, Jack manages to stop the thought before Mark can even finish it. No, sickness or otherwise, Jack's not going to let Mark get away with thinking he did something wrong. He takes his hands away from his face, lowering them absently to rest on his boyfriend's chest. 

"No, it's j-just," his stutter is back again, but he clears his throat twice to try and banish it. "It's, uh, just the booze, I think."  
Jack sounds like he's trying to convince them both.

He can feel the brush of Mark's beard against his cheek when the redhead kisses him there.   
"Do you wanna stop?" Mark asks, ever cautious, making sure to keep his hips still, but Jack shakes his head again, more times than he needs to. 

"No, No, m'fine," he insists, fights through his emptiness to put a smile on, presses that smile to Mark's lips. "Just-Just dizzy. That's all."

"Maybe you should lie down?"  
It seems like a fair compromise, so Jack agrees. They separate for a moment, sort of an awkward collection of limbs as Jack moves to lie on his stomach and Mark carefully guides him.   
He has to lie and reconfirm that he's fine, everything's okay, before Mark starts to fuck him again. It still feels good, and Jack empties a groan into his facefull of pillows. Mark's hands are a pleasant heat that Jack finds it easy to focus his attention on, the digits that lift up and hold Jack's pelvis, guiding him up to his knees and assisting him in keeping his hips raised. 

Fixated on the sensation of Mark's slow and intentional thrusts, Jack tries his absolute hardest to come back down to normality. He stills feels disgustingly hollow, like he did all day yesterday, but does his best to overcome it. The pillows are soft on his face and he grips them, screw his eyes shut. 

Static is painted on the insides of his eyelids, the flashes of images that dizzy him, sharp lights and dots that dance around. Eyes closed, he's still darting his pupils around, and a wave of nausea rushes up from his stomach, prompting the Irishman to very suddenly open his eyes again, and keep them open. A sickly noise escapes him, a whiny gasp that doesn't sound nonsexual, so Mark seems to pay it no mind. Red hair appears in Jack's peripheral as Mark lowers his head, kisses the pale skin of his neck.   
Jack stares blankly into the pillows, fingers burrowed in the cloth like a vice. His body is moving back and forth like he's on a ship, pushed and pulled by the waves, as Mark fucks him into the mattress. It's warm, wet, and Jack would have loved it so long as he had the ability to focus on it, but the internal battle for control of his body was consuming every ounce of willpower he possessed. 

He didn't feel like himself.

He felt something, a force he didn't understand, trying to puppeteer his body, trying to take over. It was awful, fighting the battle alone, and Jack was crying.  
Tears sat on the edge of his eyes, unblinking, and a couple fell down his cheeks with the power of Mark's thrusts, the redhead oblivious to his boyfriend's turmoil. 

Mark was barely even there anymore, as far as Jack was concerned. Other than the distantly pleasurable sensation of getting fucked, Jack was alone, lost in something he couldn't comprehend, something that terrified him into paralysis. His sob is stifled by the pillows, a long moan as he bites his lip.

Again, Mark can't take it as anything other than encouragement. He can only see the back of his boyfriend's head, he has no reason to suspect that Jack is currently as catatonic as he is.   
Darkness starts to swallow the edges of Jack's vision, the compulsion to shut his eyes a difficult one to fight off. If he had the control, at this point he'd probably say something, straighten up and ask Mark to stop, ask Mark to help him. 

All he can do is shut down, make attempts to focus on reality, details around him that became obsessions, things he could cling to, anything.

He feels Mark breathe down his neck, feels the elder male pull him close enough that they fit together, Jack's spine against Mark's chest. He tries to focus on the muscles in Mark's arm as it winds around his midsection, tries to count each one of the fingers that Mark is wrapping around Jack's shaft, tries to focus on whatever pleasure he can draw from the movements. Mark's voice is gravelly as it bubbles in his throat, low and direct against Jack's earlobe.

"Fuck, Sean..."

Clarity comes crashing back to him at the call of his name - his real name. Jack is thrown back into his body, into the moment, into his orgasm. A cry erupts from him, every sensation flooding back to him at once, but his teeth sink into the pillow to stifle himself - he bites down hard into the cloth, almost as though he wanted to tear it, rip all the feathers out. 

He suffers a system overload, his muscles tensing up all at once as he climaxes, stutters, and remains frozen for a few seconds before all the sensations give out, and he collapses. Oxygen struggles through the pillows to get to his lungs, but he breathes it, chases the last of his illness away with it, as though it was never there in the first place. 

"Ah, shit," Mark's voice is more alive than Jack would have believed, and it's a clear incision to his scattered psyche. "We shoulda thought about the bedsheets, fuck."

Jack doesn't speak, doesn't mention the pillow he ruined yesterday with his nosebleed. Getting cum on the hotel blankets was the last of his concerns. Did Mark even finish? Jack doesn't remember.  
He's still breathing into the pillows when he feels Mark shift, pull out of him, and get up, undeniably fussing over the mess. He counts Mark's footsteps. 

What the **fuck** was that, Jack's wondering in a flurry, using his hands to rub his face, rub the tears away before Mark returns. If Mark discovered that his boyfriend had a psychotic breakdown while they were having sex, he'd probably never forgive himself. 

Jack is useless when Mark comes back with a towel and tries to clean up. He just lies there, gets back to grips with reality, and focuses on how nice it is to have his body back. Though shaken, Jack has returned to himself.

"Oh, God," Mark cradles his boyfriend's face with one hand, inspecting him, once the green-haired gamer has sat up. "Your eyes are so red - did I hurt you? Shit, I hurt you, didn't I."

"No! Fuck, no," Jack urgently wraps his pale fingers around Mark's tan ones. "I'm just tired, I told you." 

He's noticably skeptic, but Mark accepts the excuse.  
It isn't long before they're both settled in the comfort of their post-orgasmic haze, and Jack feels safe again. His illness is banished, demons chased away by Mark's eyes, and he rests.


	4. Where

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for some pretty extreme body horror/gore imagery

There's something, something inside of him that's trying to rip it's way out, through flesh and muscles fibers.   
He feels it, every bit of it, stirring inside of him, too big for his body.

Pain comes in waves as his skin cracks, as blood pours between the breaches, coats his clothes, pools on the floor around him. It's everywhere, more than he thought he was capable of holding inside himself. 

His hands are the culprits, his own hands, clawing and tearing through his innards. His fingertips are numb and his fingernails feel like they're bending backwards, as Jack digs into himself, pulls himself apart to make way for whatever was inside, trying so persistantly to get out. 

Between stringy muscle fibers, Jack finds metal instead of bone. Wires instead of nerve endings. He cries, but the noise is foreign to him - what should have been a choking gasp sounded more like discordant static from an old television set. Raising his voice, Jack screams, but again the sound is warped, it stutters and glitches.

The metal skeleton moves inside of him and Jack feels a wave of nausea so strong that it takes him to his knees, the floor shaking with his breath. 

_release me_

Jack tries. 

He doesn't know what he's trying to release, or what it wants, but every part of him is driven to excavating it from himself, wanting to rip it out like a bloody tumor and finally, finally, get a break from the pain. Have his body again. 

Electricity sparks, lights up, from some loose wires that dangle from Jack's torso. It reflects the bloodied floor, now a dark pitch black, and shows the boy's reflection to himself.

Twisted, distorted, smiling.   
The only humanity left in his mirror image are the tears, falling from his eyes thick and opaque. 

There's oil in his mouth, when he screams again, and he can taste it. 

Determined hands are buried wrist-deep in his own chest, clutching organs, wires, that metal frame, anything he can wrap his slick fingers around, and he just pulls.

rip it out, rip it out, all of it, cut it out of yourself

All his strength goes into removing the machinery embedded in his flesh, but it doesn't shift. It's part of him now, his body, and maybe it was there all along.   
Jack's hyperventilating, he can feel it. 

He's staring at his hands, only chunks of meaty flesh and other organic matter between his fingers. It's decayed, rotten and black, as though it didn't belong inside of him in the first place.

_cut it out_

he hears, and the words manifest in his mouth

_cut it out! cut you out!_

 

_**CUT YOU OUT!** _

 

_**C̡̬͇̤̻̼̪̼͕ͭ̚U̹͖̱̞͎̫̥̞͌ͣ͋ͤ͑͢Ţ̎̆̔͗͂͏͏̱̥̤̪͙̝͉̦̞ ͍͓̲͔̳͍̤ͮͭͦ̌̿͞Y̫̜̘̖̩͇͔̾̄ͮͧͨ͑̎O̶̡̠̳͔̹͆̽̂ͬU̢̬ͭ̀̉ͤ̍ͦ̈́ ͌ͣ̀͗̏̌͗͢҉͈̘̘O̶̯͔͚̖̓͆̄͐̈͒͟U̡̺͙̝ͨͥ͌́͛͌̚͠͞Ṱ̤̖̟͈̤̳͚ͣ͐͒̽̆͒ͯͬ͢!̓̆ͨ̊ͭ̎҉͏̭̱!͉̫̻͖̖̪͉̿ͣ͘!̵̱̳̌ͤͥͬ͆ͯ̾̚͝** _

 

-

 

Jack wakes with a start - he doesn't yell or scream, but shoots awake. The nightmare is still there with him, lingering in his peripheral, festered in the strands of Jack's mind that were yet to become fully cognizant.   
Blue eyes focus on the ceiling above him, stares at it blankly, long enough that the world around him settles back into place - he's at the hotel. They're at the convention. Light is projecting through the hotel room curtains, so it must be morning.

A dam breaks when Jack sighs in relief. Shaking, his chest still rises and falls as he catches his breath, until he's able to control it again.  
It was just a dream, another one of his bad dreams. Another one of those stupid nightmares he'd been having lately - maybe he needed to stop playing horror games for a little while, focus on stupid games like Happy Wheels to give his subconscious a break.

Once his body is back under his own control, Jack rolls over in the bed, expecting to find his redheaded bedmate nearby, but panic grips him again when Mark isn't there. That side of the bed is empty. Cold. 

Jack sits up fast enough that he feels blood rush in his ears. Immediately, his stomach starts to churn again, nervousness and fear starting to rise in him, all the way to his throat. Mark wasn't here. 

Where was Mark.

Just like his nightmare, he can't breathe. When he tries to bark his boyfriend's name, the syllables die in his windpipe. Paranoia boils dangerously inside him, and doesn't subside until Jack is near-frantic, throwing the bedsheets aside in anticipation for a desperate hunt. 

Words can't describe his relief and foolishness when Jack hears water running in the bathroom.   
Mark's in the shower. 

Jack crashes back into himself all at once, head in his hands. He needed to calm the fuck down. He was okay, Mark was okay. Everything was okay.   
He repeated it until he believed it, muscles relaxing and his psyche returning to normal. Sleeplessness still haunted him, but there was no sense in returning to bed now, so Jack gets out of bed and heads for the bathroom. He needed to wash his face, wake himself up a little.

Like always, the bathroom door is unlocked, the room filled wall-to-wall with shower steam.  
Jack announces his presence, and the two exchange good mornings over the sound of running water. He gets to wash his face, stare at his reflection in the mirror, and he feels awake.

"You ready for today?" comes Mark's voice from inside the shower curtain. It takes Jack a second to understand, using a towel to pat the water off his face.

"Fer the panel? Yeah," he tries to sound as enthusiastic as he feels, but the energy of the day has yet to settle on him, and his voice seems bored, even to his own ears.   
"Remind me, ah, what time we're meetin' up?"

The shower curtain rustles as Mark pulls it back, popping just his head out.  
"Sorry, can't hear you. What?"

"What time's the panel," Jack repeats himself with humor. Seeing his boyfriends face, even wet and flushed from heat, brings life back into Jack's body, affection making its way into his words and surely, onto his face, too.

"Oh! Twelve," the YouTuber answers and pulls the curtain back around. "I told the guys we'd meet up at twelve."

That works, Jack thinks to himself, turning his attention back to the mirror. His heart jumps, only for a moment, when he sees "OLLEH" written eerily on the steamed-up glass, but it's soon banished as he realizes it's only a reflection of a much more friendly "HELLO!" written on one of the signs behind him. One of the ones that hotels left dotted around the rooms, reminding guests of check-out times and phone numbers. 

His paranoia is getting out of hand, he needs to relax. 

Jack drinks three cups of coffee before they leave.


	5. How

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one didn't get beta read so sorry for any mistakes

Coffee #1 is downed before Mark even finishes in the shower.

Jack's halfway through coffee #2 when Felix shows up at their hotel room, ready to "round up the troops" before the panel today. He's politely reminded that it's not even 10AM yet, that they have 2 hours before they're supposed to check in, but since the Swede brought breakfast, his earliness is excused and he's welcomed inside.   
Truth be told, the wake of Jack's nightmare has left him with a sick enough stomach that donuts have never been so unappetizing - but he's happy to sit on the bed and let Felix eat a half dozen by himself. Their small talk is easy and familiar. Jack's grateful for the energy that his friend brings into the room; it helps him find his laughter again. Felix tells him about what he missed after their departure from the restaurant last night, how he should have stuck around to see the dessert menu, how he wouldn't have believed the look on Wade's face when he lost "pay-the-check" roulette, how he was sure they all spotted Critikal at some point. 

"Wish I coulda been there," Jack chuckles when Felix stops for breath, sets up the coffee machine to run a third round. 

"Nah, nah, I get it," the blond replies, sarcasm muffled by a mouthful of food. "You had better things to do,"  
When Jack turns to him, Felix is waggling his eyebrows suggestively, head cocked toward the bathroom - or more specifically, the redhaired gamer _IN_ the bathroom, currently dabbing concealer on his neck to cover up the purpled intents of Jack's teeth. 

Jack doesn't mean to, but he cringes.   
For the sake of their public personas, the couple usually harboured a strict "no hickeys" rule. As much as they were both prepared for rules to be broken, the blemish didn't look painless - Jack had already apologized more than once. Mark didn't seem as flustered by it as the offending male had been, just chastised Jack playfully and made a comment about how lucky they both were that he'd packed concealer at all. 

Evidence or no, Jack was worried about the bitemark. He didn't remember leaving it, and certainly would have recalled the apparent aggression devoted to it in order to leave a bruise so... glaring. 

He realizes that Felix is still waiting for a response, so the Irishman scoffs and throws an empty coffee cup in the gamer's direction with noncommittal annoyance.  
"Oi Pewds, feck off with that" is what he ends up saying, humor pulling at his accent. 

Another eyebrow wiggle and Felix lets the subject drop, tossing the coffee cup projectile back to his friend in silent demand for his own. 

They return to the bed and drink their coffee while they wait, half-patiently, for Mark to finish in the bathroom. He takes a long time, but Jack stays silent about it, guilty about the severity of the bruise and how difficult it must be for a YouTuber with little-to-no makeup experience to cover it up. If only Arin was still around, they could have asked him for help.

Instead, Jack glues himself to his phone, scrolling through tags on his social media. He makes a second post reminding people that he would be attending the panel today in place of his absence two days ago. It's when he starts posting pictures of the con that nausea starts to combine with the coffee in his stomach. 

One of the photos stares back at him.

It's the one he took yesterday, with the two girls who asked him about his Halloween plans. Jack is dead center in the photo, both of the fans pressed against his shoulders to squeeze into frame - one of them is a little too short and her chin is cut out of the photo. The other girl, the one who snapped the selfie, was almost taller than Jack himself.  
But it's not the girls in the photo that make him feel sick.

It's him.  
Or, what was supposed to be him.

The image is blurry and distorted, but only from Jack's neck and up. It looks like a severe motion blur, but it's so focused and obscures only his countenance, nothing else. Both of his companions are unaffected by the error.   
Just Jack specifically. It's like someone pressed their fingertip to Jack's face and smudged it. His eyes barely even look like they're open, just dark blots in the center of his face. Though he remembered smiling for the photo, it doesn't seem to reflect that now, staring back at him with an inexpressive, corrupt form of semblance.

He swallows hard, forcing the bile back down his throat. It bubbles when he talks.  
"Hey, Fe," he catches the attention of his companion, who raises his eyebrows with interest. Jack shifts a little to tilt his phone screen in the Swede's direction, wanting to share the image and confirm that it was as fucked up as he thought it was. Anxiety sits in him.

Felix takes the phone and scrunches his eyebrows together in focus. Taking this as affirmation, Jack gestures meaninglessly with both hands, almost in defense. 

"What the fuck, right?" his laugh is forced, waiting for the blond to speak, to comment on his disfigured face. The silence that falls between them weighs heavy on his lungs, so he holds his breath. 

"Damn right, 'what the fuck'," Pewdie jabs the screen with his pointer finger. "That chick is like ... insanely hot."

This time, the laugh comes easy, as Jack feels himself relax in the moment and swipe his phone back with playful vigor.  
"Oi! You shouldn't be sayin' shit like that," he chides, keeping his eyes away from the photograph for the time being. Instead, he lightly shoves the other man.  
"What about Marzia?"

"You're right," Felix nods his head in the phone's direction. "Send me that picture, she'll want to see it too."

They laugh together. If he was ready to admit it, a small part of Jack is envious for the level of comfort between Felix and his Italian partner. They'd been together for longer than Jack had known them. In comparison, it made his relationship with Mark seem so new and virginous. It scared him, a little, but in a way it made him look forward to the future.  
The warmth of the thought settles him.

As if on cue, the redhead shuts off the bathroom lights and joins his friends, arms out on either side of him in grand showmanship. He turns his head to the side and presents his neck to the duo.  
"What do you think? Good enough?" 

"Looks great, Markimoo." Felix replies impatiently, doesn't look up from his phone. His fingernails make a clicking noise from where he's furiously texting. "Fabulous."

Mark deflates, arms dropping to hang limp at his sides, but straightens back up again when Jack gets to his feet, steps close to inspect the now-concealed bruise. It's clear that Mark isn't well-versed with the materials, but he managed to get it to a point where the discoloration isn't obvious unless someone went looking for it.

Pulling the fabric of Mark's shirt up around his neck to cover it, Jack smiles apologetically. 

"Looks fine," he assures. "Maybe just do this all day."   
Stupidly, he demonstrates, bunching his shoulders all the way up to his ears and makes a face. 

Mark's laugh is classic, wrapping his arms around Jack's tiny waist in a manner that instantly relinquishes every strand of the anxiety that tangled him previously. His muscles relax in the hold.

"Sorry," the shorter man mouths softly, and Mark kisses the apology off his lips. Jack floods with affection, only disheartened by the fact that he's going to have to spend an entire day without this. He's going to have to keep his boyfriend at arms length all day, going to have to pretend that their relationship extends nothing beyond platonic. His chest rises in a sigh, but he doesn't make a sound. Just curls his fingers in Mark's shirt, focuses on the feeling of lips pressed against his, and bathes in it. He commits it to memory so that it might tide him over the entire day. He feels the smile against his mouth, and knows that Mark - though he was never really upset in the first place - has forgiven him.

"Gayyy," Felix caws dryly from the other side of the room, and the bed squeaks as he stands up. "If we're late because of you two, I'm gonna tell everyone exactly why."

The couple separates in laughter at the empty threat - they both know that the Swedish gamer would never out them like that, but the petulance in his voice brings up a good point.   
An urgency fills them as they hurry to finish dressing and gathering their things. Mark checks and double-checks that he has the hotel room key, Felix distributes the convention passes, and Jack gets a glimpse of the haunting photograph still open on his phone as he slides it into his pocket. 

They turn the lights off behind them when they leave.


End file.
